Bleached and Faded
by Iris Cornelia Jade
Summary: Watered down by time, faded with sorrow. Moments kept in time, preserved. Single wisps of memory that blow through the twilight hour, small pangs of feeling that they can remember for a single second before the memories are lost again.
1. Sharpies and StickyNotes

**I'm not competing for the challenge that this prompt comes from. The deadline is over, anyway. It's Another Artist's "A Little is a Lot" challenge. I just liked the prompts, and felt I would do this for my own personal pleasure and memory.**

**Prompt: "Sharpies and sticky-notes made up their last memories."**

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><p>Simple one-liners. Quite insignificant, mostly. To an outsider, no one would have been able to read the love between the lines. But certain people would have been able to read the care and love in the purple cursive, black script, and, a later addition, the green-and-blue conjoined writing of a small child. Certain words would rise above the others, pressed harder with ink, as though to place more emphasis.<p>

_Don't forget._

_Be careful._

_I'll be home very soon._

_Always._

They are locked up now, in a dusty old music box that still occasionally tinkles with _The Dance of the Sugarplums. _A very old antique, covered with grit and dust. Passed down mother to daughter, parent to child. Lined with dirt and occasional auburn hairs, neon colored sticky notes still join together when jostled. Strings of word after word, laced with love.

Faded memories of laughter that she cannot place, words she cannot discern, hugs she can barely feel. They come back, with the smell of cedar and the preserved, watery smell of Sharpies.

Such a cruel way to remember two of the most important people in her life.

Many times she has opened the box, just a crack, so as not to hear the song played again. Too many painful memories flood when she hears the tinkling, crackling tune. Instead, she opens it a hairline crack and draws out the notes one by one, tracing the pencil and paper, ballpoint pens and Sharpie markers. She tries so hard to remember when she got them, where she found them, what they came with. What her beautiful mother, sweet grandmother, gave her.

Grace. Hope.

Loved.

That was the place where she felt loved.

Her name did not live up to her life.

Purple and black slowly faded away, leeching out of the notes. Out of the family. Slowly dieing out of life.

The scent of Sharpies and the blended, watered color of sticky-notes make up her last memories of the other two.

Three generations, falling through the papers, linked by loving words and memories that will never leave her. Thoughts that will haunt her until the end of time.

The ghosts of a past, where _family_ still lingered in every corner of the air.

_I love you._

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><p><strong>Now. For the explanation.<strong>

**The purple cursive: Hope Cahill.**

**Black script: Grace Cahill.**

**Blue-and-green conjoined: Amy Cahill (as a child, when Grace and Hope were also still alive).**

**The name "Amy" means "loved." That should clear up one of the paragraphs up there.**

** This is Amy's point of view. The last line is another sticky note.**

**Questions? PM or review.**

**_Word Count: 425 Words_**


	2. Lost and Found

**Wow, five reviews already! That's over half of my oldest story...and that one is over five chapters long! :P**

**Prompt: "How can you find someone who was never lost to begin with?" he demanded.**

**Thanks: Alex (Mommy), Ballet Reader (Ninja-Samurai Princess), The Dawn of Evolution, Volcanic Lily, and my good friend Kittens. :)**

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><p>She continues in this worrying manner, day by day, hour by hour. She searches through box after box, taring open folders and glancing wildly at documents inside before throwing them over her shoulder with an injured, wild, desperate air. She becomes restless, her tangled raven hair dishelved, the designer clothes she once cared so much about hanging off her body loosely like a second skin.<p>

All he can do is watch, wishing he could reach her and figure out _why_ she cares so much.

Their mother is gone already. Locked up tight-not only in her own heart anymore, but physically, bound by chains in a dark, damp corner from which it is likely she will never return. And they should not miss her. Such people like her-few in this world, very thankfully-do not _deserve_ to be remembered for anything. Because no matter how much good works she has done, in the tally of good and evil, the overpowering stain still sits, a weight on the whole family that will never let go.

And still, his sister searches. Searches for a reason to believe that, at one point in time at the very least, their mother actually cared.

"I need to find _her_. Not Isabel Kabra," she insists, pointing at the boxes of files whenever he asks. "I need to find _mother._"

"How can you find someone who was never lost to begin with?" he always demands.

"She is lost inside _herself,_ brother," she protests. "I need to find her. I need to find the person that shopped with me, that cared for us, that always told us we could become the best of agents. Not head of the Lucians. Not Isabel Kabra. Mother. I need to find her in there. Somewhere."

And then she will turn her back on Ian, her tired amber eyes will find the cardboard boxes in the darkened room that was once secret to them, and bend over again, to plunge a hand into the closest container and continue looking. And he always watches her, hopeless.

Because he knows that their mother is buried too deep, lost in the hatred and pain that started five hundred years ago.

And because, no matter how many times he denies it, he too wishes that their mother truly cared.

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><p><strong>Explanation: This is really obvious, since I mention it directly, but the mom is Isabel, boy Ian, and girl Natalie. The room is the secret wing.<strong>

_**Word Count: 410 Words**_

**Wow, my drabbles always seem to border the bare minimum...:P Oh well...But I thought I did pretty well on this one.**


	3. Cereal and Sugar

**Third prompt! It came right after I posted the second prompt, so...**

**Prompt: He ignored her question and asked, "What kind of cereal do you prefer: Cinnamon Toast Crunch of Sugar Puffs?"**

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><p>Breakfast was a rather lax ceremony that morning, when a tired-looking Dan Cahill walked downstairs with his hair sticking in all directions.<p>

It was the day of another Cahill Reunion. However, the difference was that this was the first reunion without Grace. The first reunion after the completion of the clue hunt. The priorities were listed in that order, by every Cahill in the room.

The Holts were pouring bowl after bowl of cereal into carton after carton of milk, the Starlings looking on, disgusted. "You know, it's a lot neater to pour the milk _after_ you pour the cereal." Ted Starling grabbed a box of Mini Wheats and demonstrated, while the Holts stopped chugging Fruit Loops just long enough to look. Jonah managed to tell the Holts to stop messing up his movie-star hair with the flying crumb just long enough to swallow a mouthful of Apple Jacks. "Yo, this cereal is off the chain!" He continued to talk about how "poor food" was much better than he expected. Dan listened in faint amusement until talk turned to Jonah's personal brand of cereal. Tuning him out with a sigh, he smiled. Some things never change.

Amy smiled sleepily over the rim of a cup of milk, as Alistair spooned up a bit of Cap'n Crunch. Ian was glancing alternately between Natalie and Amy over a plate of Lucky Charms, oblivious to the fact that the marshmallows were going soggy. Natalie herself was contemplating deeply whether or not to choose a bag of Sugar Puffs the Kabras had brought with them (a strictly British brand, Ian had told them) or Cinnamon Toast Crunch.

Dan walked over, took one look at Natalie's perfectly styled hair, flawless manicured nails, and neat clothing before shaking his head in mock despair. Even in the vicinity of family, she was too neat to be true.

Natalie caught the look, and looked as apologetic as she possibly could. Considering she had not had any experience before, she managed up a rather good sad face as she turned to face him. "Daniel-Dan-I...I really am sorry for everything my mother did..." She faltered slightly, then regained a grain of her original composure and plowed on as hard as she could. "I'm sorry for everything...well...everything I did." She looked down for a second, letting her hair fall into her face. "Can you...please...forgive me?"

He ignored her question and asked, "What kind of cereal do you prefer: Cinnamon Toast Crunch or Sugar Puffs?"

Natalie looked shocked. "Well...Cinnamon Toast Crunch is hard to come by in the United Kingdom...but I like it better. Why?"

Dan smiled for real again. A smile that a jokester would have been proud of. A bigger smile than Natalie had ever seen in her rather serious life.

"It tells me whether you're just sweet, like your mother trained you up to be, like Sugar-or whether you've got a bit of difference, a bit of kick...a bit of spice in you."

"Well then," said Natalie, flipping open the tab of Cinnamon Toast Crunch with an air of amusement and finality, "I guess we really are sugar, spice, and everything nice."

"Well, not everything..." Dan muttered, and both of them laughed as Natalie handed the box to him and he poured a bowl for himself.

Both glanced at each other and smiled, knowing that a past was put behind them, a pact was made, and miracles really do happen.

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><p><strong>This one is quite self explanatory. Do I need an explanation?<strong>

_**Word Count: 581 Words**_


	4. Round and Round

**Okay, # 4...**

**Prompt: "She wonders if they realize that all they do is run in circles all day."**

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><p>It continues.<p>

Always.

And, though she knows it may be breaking her irresponsible brother's heart, it's very amusing to watch, on the whole.

He should have known, though-had coming from a complete ancestral family of spies taught him _nothing?_ She still remembers when her mother taught them the story-how many accomplished spies fall into _The Honey Trap._ This consists of an enemy spy enticing the candidate into falling in love, and extracting information.

Both had sworn not to fall into it. "We are _Lucians,_" their father had stressed, leaning over their mother's shoulder. "We are _above_ the peasant view of _feelings_. We are like statues-cold, unfeeling, admired by all. Ours is a high and lonely destiny."

And yet, what does Ian do? He goes ahead with it anyway.

Ah, Korea. She might even sneak a cherry blossom onto his pillow when she's in a good mood, just to watch him sputter.

And then, of course, there's the girl.

She remembers so clearly the scene in Cairo. The way Ian grasped her hand was not known to anyone but Ian, Amy, and Natalie. It did not matter to Amy, for she thought she was over him-not to Ian, because he was barely conscious of it.

But Natalie could see the veins stick-straight against his skin, and knew-the air of desperation with which he grabbed her hand says it all.

He still likes the peasant.

Even more surprising was the fact that the peasant still liked him.

Do this generation of Cahills know _nothing _about how their family works?

And so, after the clue hunt-when she could finally take a lesson from Jonah on singing, and when she could exchange an hour of stealth class for an hour of drawing class with Reagan Holt. When she could apologize to Dan Cahill and learn how to prank her brother. She must give them credit for that-together, they can do a lot more.

And, of course, it is left free for Amy and Ian to talk.

And still, they avoid the subject.

Natalie marvels at the _human_ of it all. Her brother has become so human. So 2012.

He has become a teenager, complete with hormones.

Sometimes, Natalie still feels a bit shocked. She will wake up and wonder why Ian is already up, trying to choose clothing he thinks will impress _her._ Not mother, but _Amy._ Sometimes, she will feel lonely when Ian bustles in after school, only to grab a muffin and whisk back out.

But still, she is content to watch it play out, and wonder at just how blind her brother can be.

Sometimes, she even smiles when she wonders if the realize-all they do is run in circles around each other all day.

She wonders if love was created-not for her to experience, but for her amusement.

Really, she'd be content either way.

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><p><strong><em>Word Count: 583 Words<em>**

**R&R?**


	5. Win and Lose

**Prompt: I may be a loser, but I feel like a winner.**

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><p>You have no idea how it feels.<p>

It shouldn't be like this. I am a _Tomas, _I am strong, I can break through anything. I can get past these ropes that are holding me to the resting place of my ancestor. I can snap them into pieces and punch the lights out of the guards. That is, I _could_, if I wanted to.

But I don't.

My son's life depends on it.

It's a horrible feeling, really. Helpless, for once in your life. You always hope it would neve happen. But as it does, you'd better pray that it _does_ only happen once. It's not pleasant.

It makes you feel weak.

_Weak..._ it shouldn't even be a word. Not to me. I am never weak.

But I am now.

I can see the faces of my children. Terrified, that they will not live to see another morning. My wife is not shuddering, but her face is blank, which is worse.

I can not see myself. I do not know how I feel.

There is another face that is missing from my family.

My son...he is trapped in stone. I hope he doesn't die in there, away from his family. There is so much more I would have liked to have told him.

And then, they arrive.

A stone shakes loose, and then the boy Kabra comes out. He is barking orders at the assassins-to kill us, perhaps. To end it all, because everyone else is already dead.

The guards withdraw. They still point their guns at us, even as they walk backwards and climb into sleek jets that leave trails of smoke as they take off.

The wait is agonizing. The cold, black eyes of Ian Kabra follow the path of the planes in the sky, then fall back to us. We are helpless. The word again. We can not hope to hold him down, not with his mother reinforcing him.

There is only one reason why the boy would come out-if everyone not on their side is dead.

Hamilton-dead or a traitor. I do not like the thought of either, but I can easily pick out which one I would prefer now.

Ian Kabra beckons slowly, and then a girl breaks out and walks, dream-like, toward her brother. A boy follows, a hand on his head, smiling all the same. And then, they run toward each other, crying and hugging and more emotional than any Cahill should be.

Starling.

And then, a flood of people break out, running to the people tied on tombstones. They untie them, comfort them, and sit back to tell tales-of how Isabel is gone. Out. No one has one, yet everybody has.

Then, Natalie Kabra.

Her brother is beside her-or rather, next to her head. Out of the stone, on a large flag of navy blue. There is blood spattered at the end. She has come to her senses.

Carrying the other end of the stretcher is Hamilton.

He does not glance at us, but instead carries the flag back in to bring out Jonah Wizard and Isabel Kabra. Then, when they have placed down the flag for the third time, he runs toward the family and barrels into us. There is no crying, but quite a lot of hugging. That is enough emotion for me. The Tomas gene in me is already buzzing like haywire.

And, over the din, over the thanks and the wows and the whoops and the celebration, celebration that we are finally safe, Hamilton yells us the whole story. He has not won for Team Holt, but for once, I realize that is okay.

We are safe. That is what matters.

I do not need to say what someone has already said. I can make decisions on my own. I can speak for myself.

I have lost.

But that is okay.

Because, with my familiy around me, winning isn't everything.

I may have lost, but I feel like a winner.

And that is enough for me.

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><p><em><strong>Word Count: 742 words<strong>_

**Point of View:Eisenhower Holt.**

**Meh, bad enough.**

**Con crit appreciated.**


	6. Ever After

**Prompt: I just want a happily ever after. Is that too much to ask?**

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><p>"No."<p>

"Yes."

"Get away."

"Don't say that."

"Really?"

"I-Ian?"

All of the stuff she said to him...culminating to this. A kick in the shins, clearly as hard as she can kick. Considerable pain is what he feels as she flashes him a triumphant smile and takes off, his sister howling and giving chase, no matter how much damage it will do to her stilletos-because mother will kill them if they don't find the next clue.

Surprisingly, that is the furthest thing on his mind right now.

His sister is guiding him, and he glances down, pretending to also be watching the glowing green dot that is her and her brother. The pulsing light seems to be an eye-her eye, jade green, reminding him that, even though she may know exactly where she is, he cannot see her. Cannot tell what she is feeling.

He is going against the girl he is beginning to learn to love-for what, his mother's praise?

That brings back more words.

"Leave me alone."

"Another time."

"I'm busy."

"Your sister could have done it better."

"Pathetic."

"Are you a Cahill? Are you a Lucian? Are you a _man_?"

Maybe his father? His father, sure, was kinder-because he never spoke to him. On that rare occasion:

"Ask your mother."

"What did mother say?"

"Don't tell me what she did wrong. Tell me what_ you_ did wrong."

"Goodbye."

Or maybe-to prove something to his sister. To prove what? What does she care about, he asks himself?

"I got dirt _all over_ my new-_"_

"Not _that_ shade-I said, pale! You don't even know good quality silk when-"

"Ian, carry this bag of shoes for me, will you?"

All he wanted was a happily ever after. Was that too much to ask? Apparently so, when he was destined to be nothing but a failure or a nothing. A worthless. Unable to compete. And unfeeling. A stone.

But..._her._ She knows how to appreciate things-the simplest things. She knows how to be happy over-happy over what? Nothing. Anything. She is different. She _knows._

Maybe he can learn?

A happily ever after preordained by God may be too much to ask...

But maybe he can learn to write one himself.

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><p><strong><em>Word Count: 434 Words<em>**

**Not one of my better drabbles...**


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